


Waiting in the Shadows

by lilithduvare



Category: Anita Blake: Vampire Hunter - Laurell K. Hamilton, Captain America - All Media Types, Glee, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Merry Gentry - Laurell K Hamilton, Teen Wolf (TV), Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, Dysphoria, Fluff, Homophobic Language, M/M, Major Character Injury, Master of Death Harry Potter, Romance, Slow Burn, Snippets, The Plot Bunnies Got Away, Warning: Kate Argent, unfinished stories
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-07-08 20:36:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19875712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilithduvare/pseuds/lilithduvare
Summary: Just a bunch of snippets from stories that haunt my mind but I doubt I will ever finish... Then again, who knows.





	Waiting in the Shadows

**Author's Note:**

> This is so far from finished that it's crazy, but it's one of my fics I'm actively working on, so there is hope for this one yet. 
> 
> The plot: Steve comes out of ice unable to digest any modern food because of all the extra additives that his body deems poisonous and rejects. So he lives off of carefully engineered shakes and energy bars concocted up by the SHIELD scientists until his 90+ year old neighbor, Angie, strong-arms her way into his life and shows him the wonders of 100% additive-free cooking and old-style markets that cater to Steve's generation and the fitness crazies. And suddenly, Steve is learning how to cook and bake and then gets roped into creating his own social media content. The events of the Winter Soldiers happen and Bucky disappears, only to turn back up, sneaking into Steve's apartment and then Steve gets a stray he tries to win over with food both of them can actually eat without throwing back up. 
> 
> Pairing: Steve/Bucky  
> Canon Divergence, especially after CA: the Winter Soldier

The change is undetectable at first. There is no way, no time, no chance to realize something is not right. First, there is the whole waking up in a strange place and an even stranger time, then he is put on fluids, treated first like an invalid then as a machine, injecting fuel into him through his veins. Yet even that cannot last longer than a few days before he is thrown into a new mess full of craziness, aliens and the ego of Howard Stark’s _adult_ son, who is at least ten years older than _him_.

And Steve fights, struggles, tries to adapt without thinking too deeply of what is happening around him. They somehow manage to defeat an army of aliens and someone who wields the power of a god, yet cannot be because in Steve’s eyes there is only one God and even him is barely more than a flicker of faith in Steve’s eyes anymore. So he does the only thing he can; he throws himself into the heat of everything, consequences be damned and Bucky’s absence feels like a missing limb, throbbing in the back of his mind, whispering of his failures.

They get food afterward. After Howard’s son nearly dies saving New York if not the world, after they secure the ‘puny god’ who caused all their problems to begin with. It tastes horrible, like grease and burning spices, but Steve does his best to scarf it down and believe it’s better than anything he had been able to eat in a long time. He isn’t surprised when he doesn’t last twenty minutes before throwing everything up. It’s fine, he should have expected it. Four days on IV fluids won’t heal seventy years spent frozen by time and ice, not even for someone with his healing abilities. It doesn’t make him feel less hollowed out once he’s empty and heaving on the dingy bathroom floor of the restaurant, though. 

He pretends everything is fine once he gets back to their table, the mood is awkward but still brimming with relief. He doesn’t touch any of the food though, content to sip a glass of water. He tries to look at the people around him like his new comrades, his group of people like he had seen his Unit, but it’s hard. They are all different and they all have their own agenda. Yet, the past is the past even if it still feels like the present to him. He stays quiet and pays attention, doing his best to pick out useful information from the stilted blabber going around him. He doesn’t understand much of it, the references going right over his head, but he gets by. Now that the crisis is over, he will have time to catch up, to learn what he missed.

Everything will be fine and just like always, Steve will learn how to adapt and survive.

Only it keeps happening. He’s still kept under constant watch even after weeks pass. Fury says it’s for his own good, the check ups and weekly blood tests that all come back perfect like they should. He’s still fed through IV and tubes, then with spoons, but everything tastes vile and vaguely like old medicine. Still, at least he’s not throwing up and it’s good. His strength is mostly what it used to be, even if his body sometimes fails him at the worst times possible. Like when he’s in the middle of a fitness test and his legs just fold under him like a house of cards, causing him to crash and break the treadmill he had been running on. The doctors say it’s normal, that he’s still healing and doing it faster than humanly possible. Steve feels humiliated nevertheless.

Eating is a chore that turns into torture the first time they give him solid foods. It’s nothing fancy even, just a plate of boiled potatoes and chicken with a glass of milk. It tastes like pure blandness and an underlying hint of bitterness. He lasts an hour before rushing to the toilet and puking his guts out. His nurse is less than impressed and his doctors doubly so, their brows furrowing as they discuss what to do. Maybe it was too soon, they say. Maybe it’s just the adaptation process. It must be natural, they agree in the end, after all coma patients need time to adjust back to regular food too, especially after being kept on fluids for a long time. They nod their heads, discussing Steve’s state like he is just another object in the sparsely furnished room, but what’s new with that?

Steve has half the mind to get up and walk out on them, even toys with the juvenile idea of scaring the doctors by faking rushing to the toilet to throw up again, but in the end he stays in his bed and listens in silence as the ‘experts’ come to yet another decision regarding his life. If he wants to be honest, it’s almost easy too, doing what he’s told to do. It saves him from having to think, having to remember, because nothing else exists just orders and the almost imperceptible sting of needles and the hum of different futuristic machines that can take him apart without having to touch him once.

In another life he might have been awed by the impossibility of it all.

By the two month mark, he is deposited in D.C., staying in the SHIELD headquarters’ medical bay and the doctors are getting increasingly worried. They whisper about the serum failing, still not caring that Steve’s enhanced hearing can pick up every single sound they make. But the tests come back normal and everything seems to be in working order as far as they can see. Steve just throws up almost every time he eats anything solid they put in front of him. It’s despicable but nothing Steve isn’t used to if he’s being honest. Back before everything, when he was but a wisp of a human being on the verge of death every other week, throwing up after eating was a thing he did. It usually got better after a while and now, after everything when he is the epitome of human perfection on paper, Steve just rolls with it, uncaring and unconcerned.

Then one of the doctors comes up with the idea that it must be the trauma and all Steve needs is a good therapist to get over whatever ailment he is suffering from. They think about it and decide to go through a few more test before diagnosing him for mental instability. After all, the great US of A cannot have an unstable wacko for their national icon. That just won’t do.

No one asks Steve’s opinion on the matter.

He gives up more blood, he is treated like a failing power tool whose owners cannot decide whether they want to bin him or keep using him despite his defectiveness and then finally he is sent to a headshrinker. The woman has soft brown hair and sharp eyes, and she wears red, red lipstick that brings up too many unwanted memories. Her tone is always friendly but detached, hiding a note of awe that Steve can still hear despite her best efforts. Steve looks back at her with unmoved, polite disinterest.

He doesn’t share his problems.

He is still throwing up and his body is eating him alive. Sometimes he wishes he could find it in himself to care a little bit more.

In the end, he is carted off to a cozy brownstone with a strict diet made of shakes concocted by SHIELD scientists and bland, cardboard like ‘breads’ that are anything but. Everything is drenched in sepia tones as he settles into his new life, his body working again if only just, while he is watched by invisible eyes all the time. He throws himself into getting his body back into shape and then pushes it beyond his limits as he demands to be assigned newer and newer missions by Fury. Fury, not one to ever care about doctor’s orders, does just that.

It’s like he had put his circus monkey suit back on, but this time there is no voice of reason telling him he was made for more. Natasha is with him usually and Steve toys with the idea of them becoming friends, kids himself into believing that her watchful eyes aren’t analyzing his every move just to report back to Fury but actually looking out for him and his well-being.

He could do without the make-believe matchmaking though.

Unfortunately, this new him — the one with the deep blue and white uniform, the one with an apartment that could comfortably swallow up his old home at least twice and still leave space for another room, the one who is more Captain America than Steve Rogers — is infallibly polite and can only refuse so many offers before he starts to come across as rude.

It’s not his fault his first attempt at accepting a date offer turns into a near literal disaster. He should have expected the repercussions of straying off diet, of trying to act like a normal person who can eat in restaurants and chat with a woman who he has nothing in common with. Except for their jobs. Sort of. It’s not his fault that whatever ingredients they used for the fancy Japanese dish his date picked for him caused him to throw up not five minutes later, barely avoiding his date’s fashionable shoes and legs.

His date is obviously not impressed. The staff at the restaurant even less so. Still, Steve can admit that the feeling that is shimmering in his chest is as close to satisfaction as he can get nowadays, because the failed attempt at dating gives him just enough leverage against Natasha to make him stop for a while. Steve gratefully uses the extra time to work more and accidentally befriend one of his neighbors.

He honestly doesn’t know how it happens. He knows that aside from his next door neighbor, a young nurse who somehow manages to always be at home when Steve is, most of the people living in his building are much closer to his real age than the one he looks. He has met all of them on the first week he moved in, they brought him homemade dishes he sneakily managed to pass on to the nearest shelter in order not to offend them with his useless digestion system and his inability to eat any of the delicious smelling food they kept bringing to his door. 

They are all polite and remember things Steve never got to live through, talking to him as if they expect him to join the conversation with his own tales, except the dates don’t line up, not really. They might be almost his age, but the few decades or so gap between them shows and the only familiar feeling Steve can understand from them is the bitterness they talk about the way times change. Still, they do their best and so does Steve, showing hints of his upbringing when he offers his arm to the ladies whenever he meets one of them in front of their building and when he takes it upon himself to carry their shopping or do some basic repairs in their homes.

But they are not friends, not in the way they probably expect them to be.

Angela Martinelli is Steve’s oldest neighbor, a small, spry lady in her early nineties, who has no idea what the word ‘no’ means and obviously has no desire to ever find out. She has a shrewd, mischievous look in her eyes every time she crosses path with Steve, and it reminds him of someone else… a missed chance at happiness and probably heartbreak. He always has a smile for her nevertheless, because she was the only one who never tried to push anything on him, just greeted him with a warm, cheeky smile that must have got her in and out of trouble countless times when she was younger, and forced him to walk her up to her apartment but never allowed him to carry any of her bags.

They have built a routine between themselves, one they never talk about just simply abide, meeting in front of the building’s front doors every Wednesday and Saturday morning, Ms. Martinelli with her freshly bought groceries and Steve not so freshly back from his usual morning run. It is a nice routine, one of the few Steve actually looks forward to. They established their unspoken rules and he is content with their short chats that remind him of the rapid fire banter he used to exchange with Bucky in another life. 

So, obviously, something has to knock that routine off its axis and send it into a crazy spiral, just to mess with Steve’s head maybe four months after he thought his life was finally slotting into its expected place.

He feels like death warmed over and has barely slept at all from all the stomach cramps and throwing up he has been doing all night. He blames the new formula SHIELD sent him to test, and glares balefully at the half-empty shaker left on his coffee table before he first threw up the night before. He can barely keep his eyes open and wishes the blasted serum that has kept him alive for seventy years would finally kick in and heal his bruised insides and burning esophagus — a word he never expected to learn and understand — but his body stays stubbornly locked down and in agony.

The loud, almost demanding knock on his door is really just what he needs when he can barely move an inch without the need to whimper or at least gasp for breath, but it doesn’t stop even after a few minutes, leaving Steve with no option but to struggle to his feet and stumble to the door. He hopes his sweaty, probably horribly green face will be enough to scare any visitors away, but he is only met with a pair of neatly trimmed and drawn eyebrows above way too knowing green eyes.

“Ms. Martinelli,” he manages to croak out, wincing at how bad he sounds.

“Call me, Angie, sweetie. I know memory problems are part of aging, but I expected better from you,” she chides with a smirk, always coming up with a new way to bring up his real age, practically crowing about him being older than her. “But I guess, I can forgive you this time. You don’t look too hot.”

“Something I ate.” It’s not even a lie, but she just huffs and all but pushes past him into his apartment like she’s at home.

“Go lie back down, I know just the thing your poor abused stomach needs.” She waves one of her bag laden arms at the couch before she walks over to the kitchen, muttering under her nose, “Men and their stupid muscle powders… not that women are any better these days.”

Steve stands in the middle of his living room, jaw slack. He has no idea what just happened, but the idea of lying down sounds good and it’s not like he hasn’t been throwing up all night and morning. One more meal won’t make a difference. His stomach roils in agreement, causing him to curl up in a tight ball and squeeze his eyes shut.

He tries to shut everything out and concentrate on ignoring the pain as much as he can, but it seems impossible. A cool hand on his forehead draws him out of his internal torture induced haze and then the next thing he knows is that his hand is pressing something warm against his stomach and Ms. M… Angie is placing a steaming mug of something on the coffee table in front of him.

“Wait until it stops steaming then drink it sip by sip,” she instructs.

“I…”

“It’s chamomile tea with a little mint in it. None of that modern bagged shit, of course,” she adds, preventing him from coming up with anything. “This comes from a real herb garden and was carefully harvested. I and my ninety-two years of healthiness both swear by it.”

Steve doesn’t have the heart to tell her that he won’t be able to keep it down probably. She looks at him with so much certainty and expectations that he thinks it’s better if he simply prepares for another round of gagging and tasting bile, and doesn’t protest.

“T-thank you,” he says quietly, his words shaky with exhaustion. The warm bag of something against his stomach starts to feel heavenly, something he did not expect at all, and he feels his eyes slowly droop and legs uncurl into a slightly more comfortable position as the pain edges back.

He doesn’t get to sleep long before the warmth disappears and he blinks awake to the familiar tunes of his mother’s favorite song. For a sluggish moment he expects to see her when he raises his head from the cushion he’s lying on, but the setting is too different, too alien for the illusion to hold. What he finds instead is Angie puttering around in his kitchen, cooking something that smells way too good for Steve to be able to stomach, but he has to admit he feels a little better and he has only Angie to be grateful to for it.

He looks down at the little kitchen towel bag that apparently hold a plastic bag full of salt when he unfolds it, and tries to recall if his mother had ever done something similar for him when he was young and prone to having an upset stomach. He cannot be sure, but then again, his mother was a nurse, she had access to medicine they shouldn’t have been able to afford yet somehow always managed to have on hand when Steve needed it the most. Warm, handmade pads of salt or anything had little place in their frugal lives.

He notices the now most probably also cold tea on the coffee table and cautiously reaches for it, braces for the first sign of returning nausea. But it remains absent even after he takes a shy second sip, the liquid tasting strangely oily on his tongue even with the mild flavor of mint added to it.

Before he knows it the mug is empty and he is staring into the last dregs of chamomile left on the bottom of the boring blue ceramic, his stomach calmer than it has been for not only a day but probably weeks. If not months.

“It’s all the weird additives they put in food nowadays,” Angie comments as she walks back into the living room, oddly quiet for someone her age. She is wiping her hands in yet another kitchen towel, her lips quirked up in satisfaction. “I absolutely despise it when the kids decide to surprise me with ‘take out’ as if I’m from ancient times and didn’t live through the evolution of food delivery.” She rolls her eyes and takes a seat in the armchair across from the couch. “But of course they have no working taste buds anymore and always order the most heinous things. Well, let me tell you, my stomach absolutely cannot take the amount of bullshit they try to shove down my throat.”

For a second, Steve has the feeling she’s talking about something other than food, her expression severe in a way he has never seen it before, but then she grimaces and pats her stomach with a little shrug. Steve offers a faltering smile and doesn’t know what to say. Or what he is expected to say.

“What I wanted to say is that, all joking aside, I know how it is. We might have had to boil everything back in the grand old times, but at least we didn’t add so much crap to our food to seemingly make it taste better.”

Oh.

How no one has thought of that before? That the serum might not be defective but actually trying to save him from all the additives people put in everything nowadays? Of course, Steve is no scientist or nutritionist, but the chance that he could be able to eat real food again is too tempting to ignore. Not that he has any way to test it…

Or does he?

“M… Angie,” he starts, trying to choose his words carefully, “is there any chance you could tell me where you buy your groceries?” He even pulls out his most earnest smile despite knowing that its effectiveness must be dampened severely by the aftereffects of his sickness.

Angie laughs, loud and brazen. “I give you one better. Well, two better,” she amends. “One, I made my famous Nonna Martinelli chicken broth that cures any ailments. And two, once you’re up and running again, I’ll take you to the best farmer’s market in the city.”

“You shouldn’t have… I mean, thank you but you didn’t have to…” Steve knows he’s not making much sense, but Angie seems to get it because she just smiles and stands up again.

“Oh, hush you. I did it because I wanted to.” She winks at him shamelessly. “Now, if you feel a bit better, go and wash up before eating. I’ll get you a bowl of soup.”

Steve feels heat rush to his face, causing him to sway on his already unsteady feet. He manages to catch himself before he topples over, grabbing the back of the sofa for support, but the short walk and the splash of cold water on his face do him some good in the end. By the time he gets back into the living room, his coffee table has a tray with a bowl of steaming soup and a glass of water on it and Angie is back in her claimed armchair, spooning the clear, golden liquid into her mouth.

The first bite tastes like home even though he knows his mother could never afford such high quality ingredients. It’s light and perfect, and Steve has to close his eyes for a long moment to will away the emotions that try to push to the surface violently after their long frostbitten sleep. It’s overwhelming and he cannot decide if in a good or bad way, but maybe he doesn’t need to because for the first time since the serum — maybe since ever — he isn’t expected to do anything.

Angie isn’t looking at him, isn’t asking for compliments, she simply enjoys her own meal and it allows Steve to do the same. Their silence is companionable, only accompanied by the soft clinks of their spoons against their bowls. Steve looks into the disappearing broth, admiring the harmony of the soft color and the gentle but rich tastes bursting on his tongue, and decides he needs to learn how to make it himself, that he needs to learn how to cook properly.

The decision surprises him more than he thought it would. It’s his first real decision since he woke up in the future, something inherently selfish and made just for himself. It feels like a concept that is more alien than it should be, than it has any right to be. It reminds Steve of the man he used to be, the selfish, greedy idiot with a too big, too heavy chip on his shoulder and for once the remembrance doesn’t leave him raw and aching, but almost proud and wistful.

A glimpse of the real Steve in all his battered glory.

* * *

_‘Bucky would laugh so hard if he could see me now,’_ is Steve’s first thought when he finds himself in Angie’s homey if slightly chaos-ridden kitchen only a few days later for his first official cooking lesson.

The trip to the farmer’s market was definitely an experience he won’t forget anytime soon, but Angie helped him through all the awkward stages of being gawked at and then fawned over by the excitable farmers selling their produces. No one recognized him as Captain America, his baseball cap, leather jacket and plaid shirt, not to mention his somewhat slimmed down body did not paint the illustrious image his full costume and shield had during the Battle of New York. However, everyone knew Angie and they all wanted to know who the ‘handsome young man’ she had on her arm was.

Steve didn’t have the heart to tell them he was actually older than Angie. Not that anyone would have believed him.

_“Don’t take it personally, sweetie,”_ Angie said on the way home. _“Without your trusty shield and gaudy costume you cannot expect people to recognize you.”_

Steve felt his face heat up even as he shook his head in denial. _“It’s not that,”_ he protested. _“I’m not… Tony Stark._ ” This earned him an amused snort and eye roll from Angie. _“It’s just… I didn’t expect to be noticed. At all.”_

Angie’s laughter was loud and brash just like her and she had to grab Steve’s arm to steady herself when she nearly tripped over her own feet in her mirth. She kept on laughing for minutes, drawing everyone’s attention to her. Then again, that is just the kind of person she is. Radiant, full of life, no nonsense.

Like _her_.

Like Peggy.

Steve closes his eyes for a long moment and promises himself for the hundredth time that he would visit Peggy one of these days. When he opens them again, Angie is standing next to him in her own, much simpler apron and is picking up a knife from the neatly lined up set on the counter in front of them.

“What are we making?” Steve asks, eying the large, gleaming knife in Angie’s petite hand. She shouldn’t look dangerous and make Steve think of potential threats, yet she does. Maybe this is how other men feel when they see Natasha and then experience the sensation of having her gun aimed at them. Or maybe this is how all the other men had seen Peggy, realizing too late that the soft, beautiful face hid ruthless danger. Surprisingly, it’s not as disturbing as it probably should be.

“Ah, broth.” Angie smiles, her lips tilting in an odd, wistful way. “Back in the day, when I was still dreaming of grandeur and becoming one of Hollywood’s darlings, I met this lovely woman called Anna. She was the wife of a friend, saved from the concentration camps by her husband. She had taught me most of the recipes I know.”

“Sounds like a wonderful person,” Steve comments mildly, swallowing around the lump in his throat.

“That she was. She came from this small country in the middle of Europe with a tragic history she kept relying to me during our cooking sessions. She had the same incredible way with words she had with cooking and I adored listening to her just as much as I loved the food she made. This broth… she said it was not unique to her country, but it was still a little different from the way _‘you Americans’_ make it. I think she would be happy to know I pass the knowledge on to you.”

“What about your children?”

Angie all but scoffs. “My nephews and their kids are _too busy_ to waste their time on cooking for themselves. And doesn’t it show?” She doesn’t elaborate, but she doesn’t really need to. If there is something Steve has learned about the future, it’s the alarming way people’s bodies seemed to have grown in the past seventy years. Still, he thinks it’s better if he doesn’t comment. Then Angie looks at him and laughs her hearty laugh, her bony shoulder nudging against Steve’s arm. “No need to be polite. People are fat nowadays. It’s the unlimited source of crappy food soaked in over-saturated fat, sugar and who knows what else and the lack of exercise, because everyone is too busy to care.”

Steve hums, thoughtful. “It must be a subconscious conditioning that stayed with them from the times when food was scarce and you had to boil everything,” he replies, remembering his childhood and how rare it was to have a three course meal let alone one that not tasted bland.

“Maybe,” Angie agrees tentatively, pulling the pack of turkey neck out of the bag the butcher put it in. “Not going to lie, I simply adore how easy it is to find new recipes from all over the world nowadays. Just a few clicks and I can make authentic food from places I’ve never even heard of before. And buy the ingredients without having to leave my armchair if I wish to. It’s great when my knees and hip are acting up. But it also makes people lazy because they don’t have to make an effort at all.” 

Steve finds himself smiling at the quietly passionate way she talks about food and the modern world, finding himself enraptured and nodding without even really realizing too. He can see her point even if he’s still trying to find his way around the new gadgets even kids can use with no problem at all.

“Well, I certainly don’t have the opportunity to be lazy,” he says, smile widening when Angie grins at him and pushes the unwrapped turkey necks into his hands.

“Good. Now wash these while I find a pot we can use.” Steve does as he’s told, making sure to clean the bony meat chunks carefully under warm water.

He follows Angie’s instructions to the T, peeling carrots and other root vegetables while they wait for the water with the necks inside to come to a boil. The repetitive motion of his knife sliding against the skin of the vegetables is soothing, helping his mind settle much better than punching bags has. When the water starts to boil and a foam forms on top of it, he watches closely as Angie expertly defoams their future broth, unsure of why it’s necessary.

“You want your broth to be clear and pale gold, not murky which would happen if you let the foam to get mixed into the water.” Steve nods and goes back to cutting the vegetables in half, adding them to the broth when Angie tells him to. “The seasoning I use is not the same Anna did, but it’s great. I’ll show you the little deli I found it in next time we go shopping.” She pours in a generous amount, shrugging when Steve raises an eyebrow at her. “Don’t ask me for quantities. Pick up a spoon and taste test it. If you think it’s salty enough, then it’s okay.”

“Well, that’s helpful,” Steve says, grinning when she swats at his arm. “Just saying.”

“Cooking is not rocket science. It’s beyond me how some people can be so bad at it to burn water.”

The memory of himself standing over at the old stove in the small apartment he used to share with Bucky and staring in horror at the flames eating away at their only good pot, makes him laugh harder than he thought it could. He feels his eyes sting from unshed tears and he doesn’t know how a cactus got lodged in his throat, but it’s hard to swallow around the stabbing feeling of nostalgia and heartbreaking grief.

“I…” He needs to stop and take a deep, shuddery breath, grateful when Angie doesn’t comment. “I used to be one of those people,” he confesses and looks at her just in time to see her smirk up at him.

“Of course you did,” she agrees, patting his shoulder in fake consolation. “Now cover the pot with a top and turn the heat down. It’ll need an hour or two.”

They enjoy a cup of coffee in Angie’s living room while she shows him her blog, navigating the internet with ease that only comes with years of use. It makes Steve wonder if all of the older generation is as tech savvy as Angie is or if she was simply unique. He doesn’t ask, however, preferring to listen to her explanations on the different way different sites work.

She doesn’t go into all the details, doesn’t treat him like an idiot for not knowing things and doesn’t show off to look better. She obviously loves to share her recipes, adding her own littler stories to each, which has garnered her quite a large following.

“They’re great. Sure there are the occasional trolls — assholes who spew hate just for the hell of it —, but in general it seems like people enjoy my stories and recipes both,” she explains with a small, proud smile. “It’s a hobby.”

“Seems like a great one to me,” Steve says, glad to see her joy and wishing he could find something similar as well.

* * *

Their cooking lessons turn into baking lessons once Angie feels like Steve has learned enough to get by on his own, and each time Steve wishes Bucky was there with him to see how far he has come since that disastrous accident with setting fire to a pot of water. He also gets to know some of the people at the farmer’s market better, learning much more about different sources of nutrients than he did from the complicated science babble SHIELD’s doctors fed to him. He listens to incensed rants about how the new hype about going ‘bio’ and ‘organic’ is hurting the farmers’ businesses especially when it’s all nothing but bullshit big companies use to sell the same products for more money.

In all honesty, it’s not even the lies that really bother him, he’s familiar enough with how marketing works to not to get overly angered about that anymore, but the dejection he can see on the people’s faces, as if they are ready to give up. Which is something he just cannot allow. Not when these people work so hard to grow healthy food and raise animals in a humane way without plastering fancy and often fake labels all over their products.

He thinks long and hard about how he could help but he doubts anyone would be interested in Steve Rogers’ ramblings. Angie herself isn’t so sure.

“What really matters is the medium you choose as your outlet,” she explains during one of their Saturday lunches just the day after yet another mind-numbing set of tests Steve had to endure thanks to SHIELD’s doctors, who are still patting themselves on the shoulder for creating a formula that keeps their failing national icon alive. Steve doesn’t want to correct them for some reason.

“What do you mean?” he asks, brows furrowed in confusion.

“You’ve seen my blog.” Steve nods. “It’s a great way to share things you want the world to know about, but it’s not the best platform if you want to get noticed.” He nods again, trying to process what he just heard. “You see, now I have over fifty thousand followers but when I started out nearly six years ago it took months before I reached a hundred. Compared to my followers, bloggers who post their recipes on Youtube in video format usually gain followers faster, especially if they have… physical appeal,” she adds with an appreciative look at Steve’s body, causing his face to heat up and his gaze to drop.

“I’m not sure I’d know how to begin making videos. All of my… old films were made by others,” Steve murmurs, grimacing at the memories of his Captain America movies and what a horrible actor he had been. “A blog should be fine.”

Angie nods, not arguing.. “Setting up an Instagram account, the one with the pictures only, would definitely be a must for you, though.” She winks at him, unabashed like only a lady her age would dare. 

He finds her flirting endearing, but needs a second to once again digest that in a different world they would look the same age and there could be a real connection. Angie doesn’t let him wallow for long, anyway, her frail-looking hands have already swiped his phone and are typing away just as fast as any kid’s, the almost lightning quick motion awing Steve every time.

Her grin is smug when she hands his phone back and that’s how Steve Rogers gets an Instagram account with a picture of him staring dumbstruck at Angie already posted. The caption underneath is short, only one word really, but it’s accompanied by several words with a hash in front of them.

> **stevegrogers** Specimen #thedailylifeofsteve #fitguys #fit #muscles #hotguys #hot #fitness #workout #dorito #hotdamn #guysofinsta #hotguysofinsta

The further he reads the hotter his face feels. His jaw is slack and his eyes are wide, and he just doesn’t know what to say.

“I…” he trails off. Stares at Angie, hoping she understands, but she just rolls her eyes and reaches out to pat him on his forearm.

“It’s okay.”

“This is horribly… narcissistic. I’m not this guy.” He looks down at the image still staring back at him from his phone screen. 

Angie rolls her eyes again. “The tags are there to make sure more people see it. It’s a marketing strategy.”

“Still…” 

“Look, Steve. Once you have a steady following, self-promotion via tags won’t be as important or necessary. But things move fast nowadays. Things that are interesting one second are long forgotten in the next. You need to be up to date and in motion.”

Steve sighs. Giving up before even starting sounds too tempting, because this whole… social media thing just seems too much of a hassle. But giving up without trying is not his thing. And if he had managed to learn how to use smart phones and the internet, then learning how to use Instagram and Twitter and blogs shouldn’t be a problem either. He just needs to find the formula of how to operate them and get used to them.

* * *

Writing down his thoughts does not work out well. Bucky had always been the one with a knack for words. He was charming and eloquent, even though he did his best to hide it when he was with the other guys. Steve is an artist, always has been. He knows how to run charcoal down on the surface of paper to turn it into bodies. He knows how to mix colors to turn them into new shades. He knows anatomy and how light plays on different shapes.

But he cannot write. Not in any way that could be seen as interesting. 

Angie tries to be kind, but she doesn’t believe in coddling men’s egos and tells him bluntly that he’s shit at writing. Steve laughs, feeling more relieved than offended and agrees to do a video instead. They even manage to shoot the introductory part and it only takes them five tries, and Steve going completely off script. 

They don’t get further than that, however, because the next morning Steve is whisked off to the Triskelion by Natasha, leaving him with no chance to bid good by to his new… friend, Sam and shoot a quick text to Angie about not being able to make it that day.

It turns into a roller coaster of a shitshow from there. 

Hydra. 

SHIELD.

Bucky. 

Falling from the helicarrier. 

Waking up in a hospital with the world once again changed around him.

Steve feels hollowed out and wrecked by guilt, yet lighter than he has since he woke up, no, since he watched Bucky fall. He wants to go after him, especially after Fury’s ‘funeral’, after Natasha handing him the file on what Bucky has been through over the past seventy years, but there are no clues, no leads, nothing to follow. It’s like Bucky has never existed beyond an exhibition at the Smithsonian. 

He turned into a ghost once again. 

Part of Steve wants to outstubborn his best friend, to show him that he is welcome, that Steve understands and accepts him… or maybe to beg for forgiveness for giving up on finding him too early. He doesn’t. He tries to tell himself that it’s for the best, that he is leaving Bucky the choice to come to him when he is ready — if he’s ever ready —, but he knows the real reason.

Steve Rogers is a coward.

So, instead of setting up a hunt for Bucky, Steve concentrates on ridding the world of Hydra to make sure Bucky will be able to live his life free no matter what happened in the past. The Avengers help and so does Sam. They fight, they destroy hideouts, they kill too many people in the name of justice, and Steve wishes he could feel even a flicker of regret over the dead bodies lining their path.

He doesn’t.

He doesn’t feel a thing.

* * *

Life doesn’t stop just because Steve feels like he is existing in a loop of fight, wait, repeat. 

He doesn’t move to New York despite how much easier it would be and even though Tony asks him again after their second mission bringing down an old Hydra facility. He doesn’t even leave his old apartment, but misses when a new tenant moves into Agent 13’s vacated place. He patches up the hole in his wall between two missions and still helps Angie with her shopping bags. He goes to the farmer’s market when he has the time, and cooks and bakes like he has learned. He even posts pictures of the meals he makes, partly because it has become a habit and partly to show Angie that he is eating well even when she’s not with him. 

He doesn’t have a large following, only a few hundred people, but it’s fine. If he can help even that many people eat better and be healthier, than he it’s okay. 

“It’s because you don’t show your face… and your body,” Angie comments one Sunday, stirring sugar into a pot of apricot jam.

Steve has been back from the frigid mountainside of Austria for roughly four hours and is pushing his fiftieth hour awake, but turning Angie away when she showed up on his doorstep never crossed his mind. Especially, when a nervous looking boy stumbled his way after her, his scrawny frame and huge glasses painfully reminding Steve of his old self.

Angie huffed a put-upon and pushed the boy forward. “This is my nephew… well, great-grandnephew. One of them anyway. He’s staying with me for the summer because apparently _I_ _’m_ an invalid and he needs pocket money.” 

“What? Auntie! That’s not true!” the boy yelped, his brown eyes wide behind his glasses. “Mom is just worried.” 

“Your mother should mind her own business,” Angie sniped, rolling her eyes. “Anyway, be a dear and introduce yourself like someone who wasn’t raised in a barn should.”

The boy flushed red and averted his gaze as he mumbled, “My name is Edvin Dugan, sir.” 

Steve needed a few seconds to process what he heard, his eyes automatically seeking even the slightest resemblance to Dum Dum in the boy, but even if he was a relative, nothing stood out. So Steve put on an encouraging smile that was all Captain America and offered his hand.

“Steve Rogers, nice to meet you.”

Pulling back from his thoughts, Steve shrugs and opens his mouth obediently when Angie offers him a taste of the jam. Edvin is tinkering with his phone, quiet and withdrawn, at the dining table, seemingly lost to the world. Or so Steve thinks until he pipes up, his soft voice carrying surprisingly well in the silence that has settled in the kitchen. 

“Are you on Instagram?” he asks, sounding surprised.

“Yes,” Steve replies, rubbing the back of his neck. “Your aunt talked me into it.” 

“Oh… That’s cool!” His eyes are huge and shining with excitement, and he is looking directly at Steve for the first time since he walked into Steve’s apartment over three hours ago. “What’s your ID?”

“I…” Steve flounders, looking at Angie for help, suddenly panicked. This is not a situation he knows how to handle. Does he just say the name he uses for the application or what?

“It’s stevegrogers,” Angie cuts in smoothly, but rolls her eyes for good measure when Edvin ducks his head to tap away at the screen of his phone at lightning speed. “Be a dear and spread the word. I’m sure all your little friends would die to follow Captain America.” 

Heat creeps up Steve’s neck and he turns away to fiddle with the bowl of apricot kernels, desperate to distract himself. He should be used to the attention, having been pushed into the limelight to prance around in a monkey suit too many times not to be desensitized, yet here he is, gritting his teeth to fight down his nerves over a teen aged boy seeing pictures he put on the internet.

Angie nudges his arm with her shoulder, a thin, white eyebrow raised knowingly. “Stop being an idiot. He’s not looking at your nudes.”

Steve blanches and chokes on his own spit, causing Angie to laugh at him, her giggles high-pitched with glee.

“You are a horrible person,” Steve grouses, scowling down at the bowl before him. 

“Um… Cap— Mr Rogers,” Edvin calls before Angie could say anything, stumbling over his words. “There is a lot of… food.” 

Steve feels a headache coming, and he has to fight the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. He’s way too exhausted to deal with the disappointment of a kid, who probably expected some cool pictures of the Avengers or videos of fights. He doesn’t have the strength or will power to explain that his presence on the internet has nothing to do with Captain America. That it’s him, boring, awkward Steve Rogers, who doesn’t know a thing about what’s relevant nowadays but is stupidly proud of the food he has learned to make.

“I know,” he says in the end. “It’s my account.”

The kid blanches. Angie snorts. And Steve winces at the bluntness of his words. He didn’t mean it that way, but doesn’t get the chance to explain himself because Edvin starts spluttering, words tripping over each other, like a fowl learning to stand on its legs. Steve winces again, this time in sympathy.

“I didn’t… I mean that’s not what I… oh my God… Captain…” 

Steve watches him take short, whistling breaths, and for a moment he’s afraid Edvin will either start hyperventilating or spiral right into some kind of attack, but then Angie is there, her hand clasping down on the boy’s shoulder and it works like magic. Edvin sucks air into his lungs, chokes a few times with his chest heaving, and then slowly quiets down. His lips are wobbling, yet no tears follow, and he looks at the phone clutched desperately in his hands as if seeking for answers to a question never asked.

“I didn’t mean to… offend,” he mumbles, face pinched. “I just didn’t expect… food.”

Steve’s lips twitch. Thinking about it, yes, he can see how it would be a shock to see Captain America’s social media full of pictures of semi-artistically organized plates full of food he himself made. He thinks about how he would have used instagram if it had existed back in his time, and he remembers all the sketches and paintings he had done. Being sick so often had allowed him — more like forced him — to occupy himself on his own. If the internet had existed back then, he would have been one of the many artists who show off their work to the world without the pretentiousness of art shows and gallery openings. 

In this time, Steve is not an artist, not really, but a fledgling cook, who finds solace in stirring sauces and measuring flour, while doing his best to keep his meals healthy and full of nutrients. And no one would second guess his choice of topic to share because he does look the part of your average fitness enthusiast. Except Steve is not just any other health nut — another expression Angie had been nice enough to pass on —, but Captain America, a public figure whose face everyone knows now and has his own exhibit in the Smithsonian. 

Suddenly, the whole thing is just too funny. He bursts out laughing, the sound only a touch too harsh, but he cannot stop. His eyes squeeze shut and his lungs burn, yet he keeps laughing, brain abuzz with incomprehension and despair. And Steve laughs, laughs and laughs. 

Until his barks and chuckles turn into hitched, wretched sounds too close to sobs for him to deny it anymore.

He vaguely hears Angie cluck her tongue and then a thin arm is folding across his back and pulling Steve forward against soft cotton and the scent of freshly picked wild flowers and allspice.

Steve doesn’t resist.

He cries. 

The tears are hot on his cheeks, their weight searing into his skin and he lets years of pent up frustration, shame and grief out on the shoulder of a girl three years his junior, who looked like she could have been his great-grandmother at the same time. And he’s never been a crier, but it feels so freeing and cleansing that he just cannot stop. 

By the time the tears dry on his cheeks his eyes feel gritty and his brain is filled with a vague sense of embarrassment. Edvin is red in the face and is studiously staring at the screen of his phone while Angie is already putting a fresh cup of tea in front of Steve. 

“Drink it up, it will sooth your nerves and calm your mind,” she instructs before busying herself in front of the stove again. “Now, about your social media persona.” 

“I… I don’t have that.”

“But you do!” Edvin pipes up, then promptly blushes but doesn’t turn away. Steve admires his courage. “You have all these fan pages and Instagram accounts dedicated to you. All the Avengers do actually. Still, if you want to be someone…

Steve sips his tea and waits him out. It seems like Angie has the same idea because she turns around with her own cup of tea and leans her hip against the counter. Edvin blinks and bites down on his lip, but then he takes a shuddering breath and goes on.

“I mean you have this account and you like to cook right? Why not do something with health and fitness? There are so many Instagram fitness gurus that no one would really make a huge deal out of another unfairly attractive dude showing off his perfection online. At least not at first… I mean…”

Steve cocks his head, considering the idea. But he doesn’t want to show off. He doesn’t want to be a symbol but helping other people with similar problems like his… he could get used to that. Maybe it’s time he admitted that he really does have a hero complex, just like that not all heroes fight with their fists and big words. 

Then he takes a look at Edvin and an idea strikes him out of nowhere. “Edvin?” 

“Captain Rogers?” 

Steve hopes he doesn’t grimace at the formality and does his best to ignore it as he says, “Would you… what would you say if I offered to train you?”

“Wha…?” Edvin’s jaw drops and he stares at Steve in incomprehension. “Captain Rogers I can’t…” 

“Steve. Call me Steve.”

“S-Steve, I can’t… my asthma—”

“Is not a reason why you should not exercise. I used to have asthma too, you know.”

“And it never hindered him from getting into trouble,” Angie comments, causing Steve’s head to snap to him in shock. “You think people didn’t hear stories? There are entire books on you and _our_ generation was raised on stories about the pipsqueak who turned into a real life hero.”

The words ring true, yet Steve has the feeling it’s not all to it. Angie’s smile is downright cheeky, but she doesn’t add any more to it and Steve decides to let it go. For now. Edvin looks between them and then at his knees, still seemingly unsure but after another minute or two he finally nods in agreement.

“I’m really bad at sports. Just saying!” he adds hastily before Steve can say anything. “Seriously, my PE grades are horrible.”

“That’s fine,” Steve assures him, remembering his own teen aged years. “The good thing about the 21st century is that doctors actually care about asthma and have come up with ways to help you more effectively than in… my time.”

Those words still taste like ash in his mouth, but he pushes through it and focuses on Edvin instead. 

“Do you want to record everything?” Edvin asks, sounding unsure. “Because I don’t think I’m the best model for videos and pictures.”

“Nonsense!” Angie snaps, glaring at her nephew. “You are a handsome boy and people will love you. And it’s a chance for you to build your own popularity outside that computer engrossed community of yours.”

“There is nothing wrong with gaming, Auntie!” Edvin’s behavior changes suddenly, his eyes flash and his back straightens as he readies himself for battle before Steve’s very eyes. Gone is the timid boy whose self-esteem is painfully low and in his place is a fierce young man glaring right back at his aunt without any sign of backing down. “It’s a good way to destress and make friends.” 

Angie’s lips pinch, but she only huffs and doesn’t comment on it any further. “Well, it’s a good chance for you to try something new. And Steve is a good man, I’m sure it will be good for you.” She looks at Steve. “Both of you.” 

And that’s how Steve finds himself becoming a fitness guru he never wanted to be.

That night he sits far too long in front of his computer soaking up all the information he can find on asthma and how exercise and a new diet can affect it. He takes extensive notes and draws up meal plans and training regimes that could help Edvin get stronger. He falls asleep at his desk, his body turning off when it decides that sixty-five hours is more than enough time to spend awake.

He sleeps in, although he does find his bed after being suddenly waken up by a blaring car horn outside just after five in the morning, but he doesn’t have anything to do that day, and it’s not like they have any other leads for now. So he gets some much needed rest, does his best to ignore his increasingly worried thoughts about Bucky and his whereabouts and two days later he allows Angie to drag him and Edvin down to the park and shoot his first real Youtube video and also take shots for his instagram. 

It’s a whirlwind experience and he can mostly remember it after watching the video of his interview with Edvin. The boy staring up at him looks terrified more than anything as Steve outlines his plans about his new diet and training. But he doesn’t complain and asks intelligent questions, and once they are sitting in front of Steve’s computer he even shows Steve how he can edit his videos so they look great and work for the platform. He gets a bunch of notification from Instagram that afternoon, and he is surprised to see that he has fifty more followers and over two hundred likes on the pictures Angie has posted that day.

He doesn’t know how to feel, so he goes for a run and then makes himself some dinner before settling in for a quiet night in front of his TV. He feels worn out and doesn’t even realize he had fallen asleep until, he is suddenly awaken by something. His eyes snap open, but the TV is still on, and he first thinks it was just some noise in the movie he was watching with his eyes closed that woke him up, but then he sits up and light trickles into his peripheral vision from the kitchen. He is instantly alert once again and turns toward the source of light, only to be faced with a man’s jean clad butt and his fridge being wide open. 

“Can I help you?” Because what else is there to ask when a burglar breaks into your home to eat your food instead of stealing your valuables. The man is frozen on the spot and doesn’t reply, which is probably understandable in this situation, but still, he is letting the cold out of the fridge and he is not the one who has to pay the bills now that SHIELD is disbanded. “Look,” Steve tries again, “you can have whatever you want from there, but could you close the door? The electricity bills are really high in this part of the city.”

“You were always a worrywart.”

It’s Steve’s turn to freeze. He knows that voice. It doesn’t matter that it’s far too gravelly from what must be disuse or that Steve can’t see the man’s face. He knows that voice. It haunts his dreams, his memories, his every waking second. And now it’s here in his kitchen… now Bucky is in his kitchen, and Steve’s throat closes around a hitched breath, choking him and rendering him speechless. Then Bucky closes the fridge’s door and turns around, and it’s really him. Haggard looking and with the same long mane that he wore when they last saw each other, but it’s really him.

“Bucky…” Steve whispers, afraid that he could spook his best friend anytime, but Bucky doesn’t make a run for it. If anything, he comes closer even if his gaze is wary and calculating. 

“I know who you are,” he says, but he doesn’t sound thrilled. “But I can’t be your friend… I’m not him… it’s just a face and you need to let it go.”

That sends a spark of anger down Steve’s spine and he sets his jaw as he replies, “I don’t care.” He knows he sounds petulant, but he didn’t ask anything of Bucky. He had hoped to find him and a part of him actually hopes for things to go back like in the old days, but he is not stupid. Too many things have changed. Too much time passed. Steve knows that Bucky is not the same person. But Steve isn’t either. “Are you safe?”

“Yes,” Bucky replies, guarded.

“Good, that’s all I wanted to know.”

Steve sighs and forces himself to look away, to give Bucky space. It’s something Sam always emphasized on during their talks after everything went downhill with Hydra and SHIELD. The things Bucky had gone through… Steve cannot imagine the pain he must have endured, the horrors he lived through. They rendered him less than human, a weapon with no will and no thought of his own. It’s nauseating, but Steve has no right to be the weak one when Bucky is standing there behind him, his presence is like the echo of an inferno on Steve’s skin, and he is alive and surviving on his own. Without Steve’s help.

It’s a harsh blow, but nothing he doesn’t deserve. He failed his best friend and Bucky has every right not to want him in his life. And no matter what, Steve needs to respect that. But he cannot just act all detached and polite, hoping that it would be enough for Bucky to see he is okay with whatever he will choose to do. He has to show Bucky that he can rely on Steve if he wants to, because Steve might have failed him once, but he won’t again. Not ever again. But only if Bucky wishes to give him another chance.

“I don’t know if you have the same problem I do with eating,” he starts and can almost feel Bucky stiffen at his shoulder. “I don’t know if you even remember how bad I used to be when it came to eating, how weak my stomach used to be. Well, it’s the same now. Except it’s the serum. It tries to purge everything it detects as not… good for my body. Anyway, I had to learn how to cook for myself…” He waits just for a second, half-expecting a chuckle or a snort, but he only gets silence. “It’s all fresh and has no additives the new age is so fond of. So you can take whatever you want to and I hope you’ll like it.”

But he knows that Bucky is not behind him anymore by the time he finishes that last sentence. He moves like a ghost, but Steve has always been gravitated to his presence, drawn in by the bright light that used to be his best friend. That gravity is still there, but Bucky’s presence is cold now, alien yet no less enticing. So when he moves Steve knows it, and it takes him everything not to turn around and beg. Beg for Bucky to stay. To not leave him again. To remember. But he stays the way he is, staring unseeingly at his TV, while Bucky slips away into the darkness of the night and out of Steve’s life.

Again.

* * *

Edvin shuffles through his door the next morning, his movements robotic while his face keeps twisting into a wince every other second. The sight makes Steve’s lips twitch because under all the shiny vibranium and patriotism he’s still that little shit from Brooklyn and he’s never been above finding fun in other people’s misery when it wasn’t anything unjust related.

Edvin must see his badly hidden glee because he scowls at him and drops heavily into the chair at Steve’s kitchen table without a hind of greeting.

“I did your stupid ass exercises,” Edvin mutters, his starstruck timidity forgotten, eying the plate of eggs, veggies and rye toast. “And this is just my ghost you’re seeing.” 

“So I can eat your breakfast and drink your shake?”

“Wha—NO!” Edvin’s hands snap out to drag his plate and tall glass back in front of him, then he nearly faceplants into the neatly halved boiled eggs. “Mine!” he hisses like a stray cat. 

“Sure thing, kid. Then eat up because we have lots to do today.”

“You won’t make me work out more, right?” When Steve only smiles innocently at him, he pushes on. “Right? Steve, right?! My arms are noodles!”

“And they will stay like that if you don’t do anything about them.” 

“That makes no sense!”

“Look, Edvin, you can get out if you want—” 

“Shut up, that’s not what I meant! I’m not becoming a total loser… or a bigger one than I already am anyway.”

“Then stop whining and get ready, we’re doing some cardio.” Edvin’s eyes widen and a piece of cucumber falls out of his mouth. Steve rolls his eyes, finding himself becoming more relaxed in the face of the boy’s antics. “Don’t worry, it won’t be running.” 

“Then what?”

“Swimming of course.”

“Ugh… fuck my life.” 

“Your aunt would wash your mouth out with soap if she heard you.” 

“She sure as hell wouldn’t, she swears worse than those sailors she keeps mentioning when she gets nostalgic.” Edvin shrugs with a smirk. 

Steve is happy to see him getting out of his shell bit by bit and he hopes that by the end of their little experiment Edvin will get more than some newly built muscles out of the whole thing. 

Leaving all the food—every item handpicked at the farmer’s market and prepared by him—on the table is a spur of a moment decision. He doesn’t expect Bucky to turn up again, not after last night. He tells himself he’s just too lazy to put everything away and anyway, they should be going already, because the pool is a good five blocks away and they are going on foot. Which makes Edvin groan and mutter under his nose.

“Need to stop at Aunt Angie’s place first,” he grumbles and Steve nods with a wide smile. “Stop grinning! This’s gonna kill me, just know it.” 

“Stop being a baby, no one died from a little exercise.”

“Tell that all those athletes who collapse on the field!”

“Edvin Dugan!” comes Angie’s harsh reprimand from the doorway of her apartment. “You did not just take that tone with Captain Rogers!”

“It should be Commander or whatever by now,” Edvin mutters, then winces and shakes his head. “Of course not, Auntie.”

“Good! Now, don’t forget to take some selfies and post them on your Instagram, boys!” she says cheerfully as she hands over Edvin’s rucksack to the sullen looking boy. 

“No need to pout, you’ll have all the girls and boys panting after you when you go back to school all dolled up and studly, you’ll see.”

“Auntie!”

“What? You’re a handsome young man who needs some lovin’ in his life. You think your precious video games are gonna suck—”

“Oh my God!” Steve has to press his lips tightly together not to burst out in laughter at Angie’s well-known dirty imagination even as he feels his cheeks heat up. “Bye, Auntie!”

The boy grabs Steve’s wrists and starts pulling him away from his aunt’s apartment. For the fracture of a second, Steve thinks about staying put just to be a little shit, but the kid has suffered enough for one morning, so Steve lets himself get dragged away with a little wave over his shoulder. Angie’s laughter follows them down to the main entrance of the building.

“I can’t believe she said that,” Edvin fumes. “To think dad thinks she’s this frail flower that would keel over from a breeze… Ugh!”

“Well, maybe you should tell your father to visit more often,” Steve comments idly, enjoying the early morning sun on his face.

Having Edvin with him serves a double purpose. He’s good company and keeps Steve’s mind from wandering to unwanted places, while at the same time the boy makes people think twice about approaching him. Because Captain America wouldn’t walk around with a kid or chat with him for more than a few minutes and a selfie. No one would dare take up so much of his time.

That’s why it’s such a nice thing to have his own social media accounts that aren’t managed by Tony’s people like all the official Avengers accounts are. When he’s fiddling around with instagram or Twitter he’s just another fitness guru wannabe as Angie so nicely put it. Sure he has some pictures of himself there, but in most of them he’s kind of scruffy and wears ratty sweats instead of his star spangled spandex. 

Not to mention, there are so many other accounts proclaiming to be him that it’s proved to be ridiculously easy to blend in without gaining too much attention for the wrong reasons. He wants his followers to watch his videos and check out his pictures because they are interested in fitness and becoming healthier and not to just ogle the great Captain America. 

Filming at the pool proves to be tricky, but if nothing else, Tony really knows how to make incredible gadgets that allow people to shoot videos underwater as well as above water. They even take some selfies and promote the upcoming video in both of their Stories, and it’s fun. 

Edvin loses his frown within the first ten minutes of being in water, and by the end of their morning session he looks both dead on his feet and energized in a way only a good workout can make people feel. Steve grins at the boy and helps him out of the pool. 

“Good job.”

“I will probably hate you tomorrow with the heat of a thousand suns,” Edvin replies, making Steve grin. “Why doesn’t those stupid books say that you’re a sadist?”

“Maybe because they are written about a version of me that was sculpted from propaganda and desperation.”

“Jesus, you’re such a millennial,” Edvin groans. “How people think you’re this ray of hope and sunshine is beyond me.”

“I’m great at improvised motivational speeches. Just ask Sam.”

“You mean Falcon?”

And suddenly Edving is staring at him with stars in his eyes, so hopeful that Steve doesn’t need more than a second to snort and pull his phone out of his pocket, hitting the tiny icon with Sam’s selfie. 

“Are you a mind reader or something, man?” is Sam’s opening line, making Steve blink in surprise. “I was just about to call you.”

“Is everything okay?” Steve swallows back his worry, his mind supplying him with an array of worst case scenarios about Hydra agents and giant alien monsters. 

“You tell me,” Sam replies, and he sounds more exasperated than anxious, so Steve uncurls his fingers he subconsciously clenched into a fist on his free hand. “Stark has been crowing about your stupid Instagram account all morning. You know the one you have and conveniently forgot to tell me about.” 

“Don’t be such a big baby, Red Sparrow, your old pal Captain Fossil is a budding fitness influencer and a food snob. Who would want to talk about that?” Steve hears Tony’s cackles from the background. “This is gold! He has two _hundred_ followers.” 

“Shut up, Stark, no one asked you,” Sam shouts, his voice only just the slightest bit muffled for Steve to know he turned away from his phone. “But really, Steve, what’s with the drool worthy food and the shirtless bearded selfies?” 

“It’s… a thing I do.” Steve looks at Edvin and hopes he doesn’t look as awkward as he feels. “It’s… fun.”

“Good,” comes Sam’s reply. “I’m glad you found something you can enjoy just for you. Although I’m pretty pissed you have never invited me over for dinner, you know.”

Steve laughs out loud, the sound bursting out of him like a balloon and suddenly he feels so much lighter over the whole social media issue. Yes, it’s for him to enjoy the way he wants. So what if his ‘official’ account has over a hundred million followers? He never posted anything on it. ‘stevegrogers' is his. It has no pressure on it, no expectations and he can do as he sees fit, build an image the way he wants to. 

It’s a new thing, but one he is really starting to enjoy simply because it’s _his_ and not Captain America’s.

“I cook everyday, Sam. Come down to DC whenever you want,” he says instead of loading all his feelings onto Sam. “But that’s not why I wanted to talk to you.” 

“Then what?”

“I have someone with me who is a huge fan of Falcon.” 

“And he recognized you under all that scruff?” 

“I can tell him that you’re too much of an asshole to—” 

“Language, Captain!” Tony hollers from somewhere the background. 

“Am I on speaker phone?”

“You think I was going to let Birdbrain the Second talk to you on his own when you live so far away from the clutch?”

“We saw each other yesterday.”

“The day before yesterday you mean.” 

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Just so you know, I’m hurt. In my feelings. Natasha tell him you are hurt too.”

“Ignore him, Steve,” Natasha says. “Who is the boy with you?”

“Edvin is the great-nephew of one of my neighbors,” Steve says around the smile that is stretching his lips wide. He looks at Edvin and gestures at the wide-eyed boy. “And I’m sure he would love the chance to talk to the Avengers.

“Wha—” But that’s as far as Edvin gets because Steve has already pushed the phone into his hand and he is suddenly assaulted by all the cheery hellos from Steve’s teammates.

Friends.

They are Steve’s friends.

Steve watches from the corner of his eye as Edvin slowly becomes more and more animated as his conversation with the Avengers continues. At one point he even promises to look out for Steve and make sure he doesn’t fall into a knitting filled sulk like men his age do.


End file.
